


It's Not the Years, It's the Mileage

by verdant_fire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Indiana Jones References, John dressed as iconic Young Harrison Ford characters, Kissing, M/M, Sort Of, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 00:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12544280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdant_fire/pseuds/verdant_fire
Summary: "Do you have a Halloween costume?" Sherlock asked, apropos of nothing. John put down his fourth Hobnob and blinked at him."What? No. Why would I?""For Halloween, John," Sherlock said in his most put-upon voice. "Obviously."In which Sherlock and John observe Halloween and catch a killer, and John does his best to bring back the 80's, at least in costume form.





	It's Not the Years, It's the Mileage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscordantWords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/gifts).



> This is just a quick bit of fluff to ease back into writing, and to celebrate the best holiday of the year. Dedicated to DiscordantWords, in appreciation of a) making me aware of this fic challenge in the first place and b) her lovely fics, which have given me many hours of enjoyment. The title is, of course, from one of Indy's best lines in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_.

It was October, and John was glad. Autumn had settled around them like a cloak. The air was spiced with the earthy, comforting scents of dying leaves and slumbering hearth fires, and the days were crouching down into long nights that nipped at fingers and noses. The trees in Regent's Park were setting themselves on fire in blazing reds and golds, and there was enough of a chill in the air to claw through light jackets and jumpers. John had taken to wearing his heavier cable-knit jumpers, which Sherlock teased him about but which still made him nestle into John's chest on the sofa. Tea seemed even more necessary than usual, and they kept the fire stoked while they were home, to ward off the crepuscular cold that crept in through the windowpanes and under the door. 

It was home, this: a fire whispering to itself in the grate, his familiar chair, a hot cuppa, and his socked feet gently bumping against Sherlock's every time one of them shifted. 221b was a cosy den of books and tea and case files, and he and Sherlock reigned there like kings over a royal treasury of mysterious killers and dangerous chases through London's secret places. The days were getting shorter and colder, shrinking into themselves for winter, and he felt the urge to hibernate, to just get a heavy blanket and Sherlock and not leave the flat for several days. He was also hungry, but he'd already been to Tesco earlier to get the ingredients for dinner, and he had a packet of chocolate Hobnobs next to his chair, so that was sorted for now.

"Do you have a Halloween costume?" Sherlock asked, apropos of nothing. John put down his fourth Hobnob and blinked at him.

"What? No. Why would I?"

"For Halloween, John," Sherlock said in his most put-upon voice. "Obviously."

John reached for his tea. He was going to need it for this conversation.

"Why would that be obvious, Sherlock?" John froze, tea halfway to his mouth. "Oh no, hang on. You'd better not be about to suggest trick-or-treating for the case. I'm not canvassing a neighbourhood with you again. You know what happened last time."

"That was a minor incident and no one was charged, John."

"Minor, my arse."

Sherlock smiled, as if in memory of the dustup. Or of John's arse.

"Nothing that exciting, I'm afraid. Our suspect is throwing a Halloween party, and we're going to attend."

"And how do you expect to get in when we've never met him?"

"It's a big party, John. What are two more people in the crowd?"

John sighed. "Right. And what are we looking for, exactly?"

"I need to see if Kellerman invited his sister. If he did, he's guilty. He claimed they were estranged, but he may have used her business to launder money."

"All right. And you've already got a costume, I suppose?"

"I have an entire disguise closet, John, do keep up."

"Fine. I'll see what I can dig up."

//

Five days and three visits to charity shops later, John had finished excavating the wardrobe in his old bedroom and was putting the finishing touches on his costume. He was wearing a sand-coloured safari shirt with khaki trousers, a low-slung leather belt with attached gun holster, his brown leather bomber jacket, and a brown felt fedora. He hadn't shaved this morning either, to complete the ensemble. Since he'd already had the jacket, this had been a reasonably easy costume to throw together last-minute, and it made him nostalgic for afternoons at the cinema as a kid.

He heard Sherlock's tread on the stairs and turned to see him striding into the room, dressed as a vampire, bloody hell. John was going to have a difficult time staying focussed tonight.

Sherlock pulled up short, blinked rapidly at him, and looked him over, eyes darkening in a way that made John's breathing pick up in anticipation. His eyes slid down from the stubble on John's jaw to stare directly at John's sternum, at the gap in his shirt where John had left the top two buttons unbuttoned, but what he said was "You don't own a fedora."

"No. I went to Oxfam."

"Ah." Sherlock squinted slightly; the little patch of skin between his eyebrows wrinkled up. "Who are you meant to be?"

John's eyes went wide. He should really have stopped being surprised by now at Sherlock's ignorance of pop culture, and yet.

"I'm Indiana Jones, Sherlock. You know, the archaeologist from the films? _Raiders, Temple of Doom, The Last Crusade_?"

"Are those the face-melty ones?"

John laughed. "Close enough, I suppose. But now we're watching _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ this weekend, you realise." Sherlock sighed his most martyred sigh.

"Anyway, Dracula? Really?" John had expected something more esoteric. And less distracting. "Where did you even get that?"

Sherlock sniffed indignantly. "One of the costumers at Pinewood owes me a favour."

"Of course they do." Sherlock was wearing an old-fashioned black tuxedo with a brilliantly white fitted waistcoat, shirt, and bow tie. And a black floor-length, high-collared cape, lined in what looked like silk, red as the jewelled interior of a pomegranate. Nearly anyone would have looked laughable in the over-the-top costume. Naturally, John thought with exasperated fondness, Sherlock looked fantastic in it, the Byronic bastard. John was more than a bit tempted to suggest they skip the party and stay home instead. He suspected the same idea had occurred to Sherlock.

"People don't notice clichéd costumes, John. It will blend right in. You, however . . . " Sherlock eyed him again.

"Where are your fangs?" John asked, half-teasing. The thought of a fanged Sherlock had delicious possibilities.

Sherlock looked disgruntled. "They made me lisp."

John grinned. "That's adorable."

"Shut up!" Sherlock's cheeks were turning pink. John rocked up onto his toes to kiss one of them. 

"Go on then, dark lord. Let's go catch a killer."

John could almost see Sherlock's ruffled feathers relaxing back into place. "Yes, all right." He slanted his eyes at John and opened his mouth as if to say something else, but seemed to think better of it.

"Shall we?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, and John led them down the stairs and onto the street, accompanied by the pleasing knowledge that Sherlock was definitely staring at his arse.

//

The party was dark and loud, and packed full of people, as Sherlock had promised. It was in full swing by the time they arrived, stuffed with young and middle-aged revellers in cheap costumes, most of them in an intermediate-to-advanced state of drunkenness, judging from their uncoordinated dancing. The general impression was of sloppy debauchery, and it seemed unlikely that anyone would remember them an hour from now. He did notice a few necks turning to watch them weave through the crowd, but he mostly blamed Sherlock for that; he looked like a dark fantasy in that sodding outfit.

The room was decorated with the trappings of the holiday, fake spider webs taped up in the corners and rubber bats hanging from the ceiling. There were plastic eyeballs floating in the punch bowl. In these surroundings, Sherlock looked, more than ever, like a swan among pigeons.

Sherlock's nose wrinkled up when he saw the punch and the themed refreshments surrounding it. "How fortunate that we already had dinner."

"Well, I did, anyway," John countered. "You ate a few bites of my biryani and wandered off."

"Unnecessary," Sherlock murmured.

"Food is not unnecessary, Sherlock," John said, purely by reflex. He'd probably never get Sherlock to eat reasonably during a case, but he kept trying. As windmills went, it felt like a noble one to tilt at.

They wound through the rest of the crowd and staked out a well-situated corner where they could keep an eye on the host. It was almost cosy, the two of them forming their own little island in all the commotion. John's right arm was touching Sherlock's left from shoulder to elbow, and the comfort and warmth of him was making John a bit drowsy. Then Sherlock jabbed him in the ribs with one sharp elbow. 

"Ow!" John protested.

Sherlock had zeroed in on Kellerman and the woman next to him like a hawk spotting a mouse. "That's his sister. He claimed not to have seen her in six years."

John perked up and looked, and sure enough, they were clearly siblings, with the same long nose and chestnut-coloured hair. They were familiar and at ease with each other; there was no sign of wariness or animosity. Though really, John reflected, there should have been; Kellerman was almost certainly a murderer, and probably more than once. He had stopped short of being a serial killer, for which John was thankful, but Sherlock mostly seemed to regard it as a failure of personal ambition. While John was musing, Kellerman suddenly broke away from his sister and headed for the back door. 

"Let's go," Sherlock whispered, and they made a beeline for the exit to cut him off. The back of the house opened onto an alley, and Kellerman was just coming around the corner toward the street when they came out. He froze, wide-eyed with panic.

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted. His voice echoed off the brick walls and cut through the air like a whip. Kellerman turned and tried to run, but John was prepared and sprinted for him. He tackled him easily and wrestled his arms behind his back, immobilising him.

"Ah, thank you, John," Sherlock said, smugly proprietary. He produced handcuffs from somewhere and tossed them to John. "I've already texted Lestrade, so we shouldn't have to wait long." Kellerman was yelling and swearing at them under John, chafing at the handcuffs, but the party was too loud for anyone to hear him. Sherlock leaned languidly against the wall, watching John with a certain gleam in his eye. 

"That costume suits you. Lucky that you wore something so battle-ready."

John grinned at him, feeling a bit predatory. "I'm always ready for action with you." At this, Kellerman made a retching sound underneath him. John dug his knee into one of his kidneys.

Sherlock smirked, and his eyes looked ready to swallow John up like the Big Bad Wolf. The night was clear and sharp and cold, and John's senses were all tuned to the purring thrum of Sherlock's voice and the adrenaline in his own veins. They'd caught another killer, one more bad man off the streets thanks to them. It was an excellent evening, and it was likely to get even better before the day was done. The tilt of Sherlock's mouth guaranteed it.

Lestrade soon arrived in a constellation of red and blue lights and hauled Kellerman away. Greg got in some good-natured mockery about their costumes in the process, which included taking a photo of Sherlock on his mobile before he could stop him, "for the Yard newsletter". Once he'd gone, the thunderous look left Sherlock's face, and he sloped off the wall and toward John, sleek and soundless as a cat. He kissed John, slow and heated, a fire stoked with promise of things to come.

"You look like a lion when you pounce on our prey like that," he growled, and John shivered.

"Does that make you a lion tamer, then?" 

"Mmm, perhaps," he said, his fingertips seeking out the sensitive places behind John's ears. "But not too tame, I hope."

John grinned. "Never," he vowed, and kissed him again, gentle but with an edge of teeth. Sherlock held him in place by the hips and welcomed him in. His mouth was hot and seeking, and his broad chest was a bulwark against the wet damp of the alley. John deepened the kiss and slid his hands up Sherlock's neck and into his hair, dragging his fingertips against his scalp until Sherlock went almost limp against him, leaning his weight into John's body.

John kissed him for a few lovely moments longer, before pulling reluctantly back from Sherlock before they both got carried away. Sherlock blinked his way back to the here and now, which never failed to be immensely flattering. 

John, still smiling, bent to retrieve his fedora from where it had fallen during the tussle, just shy of a shallow puddle, and they set out for home. Sherlock fell into place beside him, a bellows-breathing shadow. John could feel the heat of him even through his jacket, and their quick breaths fogged the air. Their hands brushed, and he turned his palm to Sherlock's, tangling their fingers together. Sherlock hummed and tugged John a bit closer, where he could wrap their hands up in the folds of his cape. John glanced over, a fond smile tugging at his mouth.

"What?" Sherlock said. "Your hands are cold."

"Not anymore," John grinned, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes in indignant affection.

"Soppy," he said, but he was trying and failing not to smile, so the word had no sting.

"For you, yes," John said, and held his hand tighter. "Should we do some trick-or-treating on the way home, do you think?" John teased. "Seems a shame to waste the costumes."

Sherlock laughed, as John had hoped. Making Sherlock laugh was his favourite challenge.

"I'd only get more sweets than you."

"Bullshit. You would not. People love me."

"Of course I would, but why bother when we've got sweets at home? And I don't share mine."

John grinned lecherously. "Literal or figurative sweets?"

"Both," Sherlock purred.

They took the long way home, with the streetlights turning the night into a soft indigo watercolour. The party had been in Marylebone, so they'd walked there, and now they strolled along, enjoying the dual glow of victory and anticipation.

As they went, Sherlock pointed out the sites of murders and alleged hauntings, and John kept hold of his hand and watched and listened. He felt almost obscenely lucky — that he was here after so many years of searching and losing and finally finding, that they'd both finally taken their heads out of their own arses, that Sherlock had inexplicably and miraculously wanted him. He was dimly aware that he was by now looking at Sherlock in a manner that could only be termed _gazing_. Sherlock seemed to realise it too, and broke off mid-sentence to glance over at John, who kept gazing back. He had nothing left to hide anymore, nor did he want to.

Sherlock's high cheekbones flushed with colour, and he watched John from underneath his eyelashes. His mouth did something complicated, and John felt his heart twist in response. Sherlock could still be heartbreakingly unsure about being loved, even after all this time. John smoothed his thumb down the back of Sherlock's hand, soothing, and his pinky and ring fingers slid back to touch the inside of Sherlock's wrist. He could feel the blood rushing there, jumping up to meet his. John's other hand went to Sherlock's jaw, gently lifting his face up.

"Hey. All right?"

Sherlock swallowed, and then nodded. "Yes."

John smiled, and stepped in closer to rest his forehead against Sherlock's. "Should I say it?"

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, and his nose slotted against John's. Sometimes, even now, vulnerabilities were easier to confess this way, and neither of them said the words lightly. "I — yes, all right. If you like."

"I love you," John said softly. Sherlock's tiny exhalation of breath against his lips was like the suggestion of a kiss, and John took it gladly. He slid his hand up into Sherlock's riotous hair and pressed his warm, slightly chapped lower lip between his own. He kissed his mouth open with focussed, tender patience, until Sherlock's hands were clutching at John's waist and hips and he was making soft, needy sounds into John's mouth. John was breathing hard himself by now, and he gently broke the kiss while they both got their breath back. He buried his face in Sherlock's long neck and dropped a few more kisses there, lingering at his suprasternal notch, before bringing his hands up to frame it and pulling back a bit to look at Sherlock, who was gratifyingly disheveled. John smiled.

"Take me home?" he offered.

"Always," Sherlock managed, his voice rough.

They walked the last two blocks home in a blissful daze, still drunk on the night and each other. When they entered 221, John glanced toward Mrs Hudson's door, trying to gauge if they'd need to be quiet, but Sherlock just snorted.

"She'll be out for hours yet. You have no idea, John."

John chuckled. "Well, I hope Mrs Hudson's holiday is as happy as ours."

Sherlock smiled at him, incandescent. That light in Sherlock's eyes spelled _home_ to John more clearly than four walls ever could. "You set a very high standard, John," he said, his voice dropping low. John felt heat flood to the tips of his fingers, tingling. Sherlock lifted his chin toward the stairs in invitation, and John bounded up them.

Sherlock followed and shut the door behind them. His self-confident grace was back, and he shed his cape in one fluid motion, swirling it off his shoulders in a grandiose movement successfully calculated to make John laugh. 

"Now, John," he said as John's giggles died down, "what shall we do about your costume?" Sherlock prowled in close to loom over him. "Those are some rather tight trousers. Will you need help getting them off?"

"Hmm," John teased, bringing his hands up to Sherlock's waist. Sherlock arched slightly into the touch, like a pleased cat. "Did you have a plan in mind?"

"I might. Do you perhaps have any other . . . accessories to go with that costume? Isn't there meant to be a whip as well?"

"I knew you weren't as ignorant as you let on."

"Well?"

"Come and find out," John said. "And bring your fangs." 

The corner of Sherlock's mouth tipped up, and he bowed his head in mock defeat. "I accept your terms. Tell me," he said, slowly leaning in toward John, "would this be considered a trick or a treat, do you think?"

John grinned, and started undoing the buttons on Sherlock's waistcoat. "You'll have to tell me."

Sherlock grinned back, one of the real ones that crinkled his face up and made him look gleeful and young. "Well then," he said, and threw John's hat across the room in favour of cupping John's skull in his huge hands, "a happy Halloween to us both."

John pulled Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers, pressed closer — though not close enough — and smiled against Sherlock's mouth. "Happy Halloween, Sherlock," he said, and set about ensuring that it was a very happy holiday indeed.


End file.
